Meet Me Halfway

I just watched Thelma and Louise and I have to tell you, I'm dying for a road trip. I loved most everything about the film: the bedazzled levi jeans, the canyons, the smoking, the drinking, the tanned leather skin, the convertible, the diners, the explosions, the tumbleweeds. I want all of it. It's a classic film, I'm delayed in my appreciation, I know I know. It was just so much more than I bargained for. I couldn't help but imagine myself, driving down a dusty road with my partner in crime, a gun in the glove compartment and Chris Whitley playing from a boombox in the sky. I've never lived in the south so maybe I'm idealizing it. A bottle of cuervo and a map might not be all that interesting. It's not that I'm longing for a cheap motel room and brad pitt in a cowboy hat, seducing me and then stealing my cash from a paper bag, though let's get real: that would be nice. It's more the idea of stolen adventure and a mexican sun, burning spicy hot and waiting for me. One of these days, I'm going to pack a bottle of jack and a straw hat and some apples and take to the open road. It's an experience that everyone needs: a high way to speed along and a friend to clasp hands with. And maybe a dirty explosion or two along the way.